


Mint In Box

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here, Abduction, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Consent Issues, Dark, Horror, Imprisonment, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One of My Favorites, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But the longer Steve spends in Coulson's hands, the more foxing appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mint In Box

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to give this warning before we begin: this is a horror story. If I have done my job at all, you should be horrified. It is creepy and dark. Enter at your own risk. Please do not read this and tell me you regret having read it, because I told you.
> 
> For a list of specific issues, please see the end notes.

He feels hot when he wakes up, like he's been under too many blankets for too long. He kicks off the blanket covering him and freezes, shivering and sweating at the same time.

There are things moving around him, road noises, doors closing, the shuffle of furniture. When he opens his eyes, he sees glimpses of a dead man. Hallucinations. The battle must have done a number on him.

\--

Steve blinks awake again, and a strange sense of vertigo overtakes him. He's in a small bed, and the radio is playing a baseball game, tinny and a little thin. For a moment he thinks the last year hasn't happened, that he's just woken up for real, that it's all dreams on dreams.

But he shakes his head, closing his eyes tight. "We did this one already. You picked the wrong game."

"I hope not," a voice says, and it can't be the person Steve thinks. "This is a live broadcast. I can change it if you want."

Steve raises himself up on his elbows. "Agent Coulson?"

"Be careful," he says. He's sitting across the room on the steps up to the door, and he stands up, walking over. He fills up a glass from the water pitcher by the bed, handing it to Steve. "You haven't slept well."

"Sure haven't," Steve says, taking the glass and drinking it quickly. He feels a hell of a lot better when he finishes it and the next glass that Coulson gives him, good enough that his head doesn't spin too much when he sits up. "I thought you were dead," he says.

"I am," Coulson says, "but I'm not doing too badly."

Steve doesn't know what to make of that statement at all. "Good to have you back," he says, for lack of anything better, and Coulson gives him a smile.

Steve takes a look at his surroundings, and now he knows it's different than when he woke up from the ice. The walls are all stone, and they look old, very old; the whole place is decorated, filled with all the things he could need- a dresser, a closet, a desk, a little bathroom. There are touches of his time here and there, a lamp, the mirror, but the rest of it looks modern, not so different that what's in Steve's apartment.

"Where am I?" Steve asks.

Coulson smiles warmly at him. "You're very safe." There's something odd about the way he says it, and Steve frowns. "You still need more rest," Coulson tells him, turning and walking towards the door. "You've been through a lot. Get some sleep, and I'll see you in the morning."

"Bye, then," Steve says unsurely. Coulson gives him another smile before he opens the door and walks through, closing it behind him. Steve hears the thunk of a bolt being pushed into place, the clink of a padlock, and that's when he knows something is very, very wrong.

He gets up from the bed, going to the door; there's no handle, but that shouldn't be a problem. The door is a heavy wooden thing, but that shouldn't be a problem either- nor should the bolt or the hinges or the lock.

Except that Steve goes to shove it open, and all he gets is a sore shoulder for his trouble. He can't budge it the slightest inch. He tries another tack, reaching for the hinges to tear them open, but he can't even pull the pin out of one of them. He bangs on the door a few times, calling out, but there is no answer.

And then Steve realizes that he's all alone.

\--

"Good morning," Steve hears Coulson say; he's got to stop letting Coulson sneak up on him like that, but he's just so tired. Coulson is walking down the steps with a breakfast tray, bacon and eggs and coffee, and he sets it down next to Steve's bed like nothing is wrong, going to sit across from him at the desk. He's wearing one of his neat black suits, the only thing Steve has ever seen him in, and he looks perfectly normal, smiling his SHIELD-issue half-smile.

Steve avoids the food, even though it smells amazing, wary of what might be in it. "Coulson," he says, carefully friendly, because he honestly hasn't figured out whether Coulson is friend or foe yet, "do you mind telling me what's going on?"

He opens his hands. "I made this for you," he says. "I didn't make the room itself, as you probably guessed, but the rest of it."

"What are you talking about?" Steve says, furrowing his brow. 

"I didn't set everything up for you the first time," Coulson tells him. "I wouldn't have screwed it up. Baseball's high risk. That was a rookie mistake. Music is much easier to deal with. Could have picked up a CD at Target that would have worked better. Even if there were a song that was too late, it could have just been something you didn't know." He sighs. "But, I was in the field and wasn't called in. So much could have been avoided."

"That's nice," Steve says slowly. "I wish you'd been there to look out for me. Could have made it easier."

Coulson's excitement at hearing that is palpable. "I'm here now," Coulson tells him. "Don't worry about a thing."

"I'm a little worried about being locked in a basement," Steve says, getting that one out of the way.

"You'll get used to it," Coulson says. "It's a precautionary measure."

"I get this feeling that this isn't SHIELD-sanctioned," Steve says.

"As far as SHIELD is concerned, I'm dead and you're missing," Coulson says.

"Everybody must be looking for me," Steve says, panic rising. "They'll look everywhere. They'll find me eventually."

"They'll never find you, Captain," Coulson says, and he's looking at Steve fondly. "The entire world is looking for you. Nobody's looking for me."

A sick feeling settles in the pit of Steve's stomach. "Don't you understand?" he says desperately. "Don't you understand how much everyone wishes they could see you?"

"Nothing to see," Coulson says levelly. "I'm just a suit."

"You're not," Steve tells him, with absolute certainty. "You're special to all of us. Why do you think we even stopped fighting each other long enough to save the world?"

"You fought together because I was dead," Coulson tells him. "You didn't notice me at all when I was alive."

"But it can be different," Steve tells him, standing up. "We'll go back together. I won't tell anyone what's happened. War makes a man do strange things." He walks over and puts his hands on Coulson's shoulders, looking him in the eye. "Everything will be just fine when you let me go."

Coulson's gaze slips down, from his face, over his neck, to his chest. Steve wants to shrink away, to make him stop, but he doesn't, wanting to show Coulson that he's not unwanted, not appalling, even if he is right now. Coulson raises his hands, putting them on Steve's stomach and sliding them upwards, following the lines of his muscles. Steve sucks in a breath involuntarily. If Coulson- if Coulson's like _that_ , then Steve doesn't have a problem with it; it's just that Coulson has him locked in a basement somewhere, and if Coulson wants- if Steve doesn't have his strength, Coulson can do _anything_ he wants.

"I apologize for that," Coulson says, stepping away. "Please eat something. You'll get sick if you don't."

With that, Coulson leaves. Steve doesn't dare eat.

\--

Days start to pass, and Coulson doesn't let him go. He brings fresh-cut flowers and warm water for baths and paper so Steve can draw, but he doesn't let Steve go. He brings meals that Steve doesn't eat and cold bottles of soda and even warm cookies, but he doesn't let Steve go.

Steve really just wants to go.

He feels weak, much weaker than he's felt in a long time; then again, Steve has only ever known sickly and superhuman, so for all he knows he could be normal now. He doesn't know what's happened, but there's a sore spot on his arm that he's afraid is a clue. It's worse in the morning, but it bothers him whenever he brushes against it. You don't spend your entire childhood sick without knowing what injection sites feel like, and if Coulson has some sort of inhibitor, then that just has so many terrifying implications that Steve can't count them all.

Coulson sets down his lunch in front of him, and he looks at Steve like he's frustrated and worried at the same time. "Please don't stage a hunger strike," Coulson says. "You don't have anything to strike against."

Steve tries not to look at the plate, but it's impossible. There's a turkey sandwich, pickle and potato salad next to it, along with a Coke and a piece of cake. "I don't like potato salad," Steve says, not touching the tray.

"I'll bring chips next time," Coulson promises.

"I need to know why you won't let me go," Steve says. "You're a reasonable guy, Coulson. We can work out something reasonable, the two of us. We'll just make ourselves a deal, and that'll be that."

"You're not being reasonable," Coulson chides gently. "A reasonable person would eat. I swear to you there's nothing in the food."

"What's in the shots, then?" Steve asks.

"I can't tell you that," Coulson says, not denying it. "But I can tell you there's nothing in the sandwich. Please? Then we can talk about everything." Steve gives him an unhappy look, but the food is in his line of sight, and he wants it so badly he doesn't know what to do with himself. "Consider it a goodwill gesture."

"As a gesture of goodwill," Steve concedes, picking up the sandwich. He tells himself he'll eat it slowly, not prove how much he needed it, but he inhales it instead, eating everything except the plates.

When he's done, Coulson gives him a wry smile. "I thought you didn't like potato salad."

"Desperate times," Steve jokes weakly.

"Doesn't have to be desperate," Coulson says. "You can have everything you want."

"Except my freedom," Steve says, and he suddenly wants to laugh hysterically. "You know I am Captain America, right? I'm kinda big on freedom."

Coulson smiles sheepishly. "You've got me there." He stands up, taking the tray and turning to go.

"Wait," Steve says, holding out a hand. "You said we could talk."

"We can," he says, and with that he leaves. He doesn't come back until it's time for Steve to have a snack, and he won't talk about anything but baseball. Steve tries to point out more than once that he's not the unreasonable one, but for some reason, Coulson doesn't seem interested.

More days pass.

\--

He thinks it's a trick of the light at first, though it seems to grow worse every day. The basement is adequately lit, but not exactly cheerful or glowing, and Coulson tends to stay on his side of the room when he comes down to talk to Steve or bring him meals. Then he just thinks that maybe Coulson's ill- a terrifying thought, when he's the one with the key. Sickness does that to people; Steve's not entirely sure he isn't a little pale himself right now.

But then one afternoon- Steve thinks it's afternoon, there's no clock, but Coulson keeps a very strict routine- Coulson lingers slightly as he brings Steve his snack, taking longer than usual to pour the milk. He waits until Coulson sets down the carton to reach over and take hold of his hand, studying the back of it. Coulson looks at him curiously, but he doesn't move. His skin- now Steve sees it, knows it wasn't his mind playing tricks on him. He looks pale, unnaturally so, like his skin is too thin, like the blue of his veins is showing right through.

He looks up at Coulson's face, pitying and alarmed at the same time. "The spear," Steve says. "The spear did something to you. It changed you."

Coulson takes his hand away. "Death does that. I'd think that you of all people should know." He purses his lips, looking down. "I'm sorry. That was a cruel thing to say." He shrugs. "I'm not going to lie and pretend that dying didn't open my eyes to some things, but I don't regret the changes I've made."

"You don't regret locking me in a windowless basement?" Steve asks incredulously.

"How else would I know you wouldn't leave me?" Coulson says; he's just as calm as usual on the surface, but the wounded note under it is hard to miss.

"Nobody wanted to leave you," Steve tells him. "Nobody ever wanted you to leave."

"Do you think we didn't know what was going to happen with the Avengers Initiative?" Coulson says, giving Steve a cold look, a look Steve doesn't like at all. "Did you think we expected you all to move in together and become one big happy family? No. All of you were going to leave each other and leave us. That's the way it was always going to be."

Steve feels guilty, all of a sudden, thinking about how much during that final battle all he wanted was to grab his bike and ride far, far away. Then he realizes he's being made to feel guilty by a guy who's been keeping him prisoner in a basement, and he doesn't know what to think of himself. "If you knew that, you could have done something about it," Steve tells him. "You could have said, 'Hey, Steve, let's grab a beer' or-"

"Where would that have gotten me?" Coulson snaps. "You didn't even have five minutes to sign my trading cards. Don't lie to me and say you had an entire evening for me."

"Please don't tell me you're keeping me here because of trading cards," Steve begs. "That's too much for me to handle."

Coulson's face softens. "That would just be cruel. I'm not trying to punish you. Just keep you."

"You've had plenty of time with me," Steve says gently. "This should last you, shouldn't it? If you let me go, we can still be friends. I'll have all the time in the world for you. Nobody needs to know what happened but us."

Coulson shakes his head. "I think we both know what would happen if I let you go. Even if Fury let me live, you'd never speak to me again. You wouldn't have any reason to."

"I could stop speaking to you now," Steve tells him. "You wouldn't have any reason to keep me then."

Coulson sits down next to him on the bed. "Can we not have a repeat of what happened with the food?" he says. He puts his hand on Steve's knee, and Steve is terrified, but he doesn't move, just in case. "You want to talk to someone. It's me or no one."

Steve very carefully puts his arm around Coulson's shoulders, trying to act companionable, like there's nothing to worry about, like he's not scared out of his mind. He can hear Coulson's breathing pick up, and he gets ready to run. Coulson puts his head on Steve's chest, shutting his eyes; his hand goes tight on Steve's knee, tight enough that it hurts. Steve's too confused to move, but all of a sudden Coulson pulls away from him, standing up.

"I'm sorry," he says, facing away from Steve. "I shouldn't have done that. Please accept my apology." He walks out so briskly that Steve doesn't have time to say anything.

Of all the things Steve expected out of Coulson, being a respectful kidnapper was not one of them.

\--

Steve's days are marked by Coulson's coming and going, by meals brought and taken away, by the growing pain in his arm, the worsening pallor of Coulson's skin. He keeps track of them for a while, hash marks on a piece of paper taped to the desk, but then the number gets distracting and depressing, enough so that he just wads it up and throws it out.

The room is starting to fill with drawings that Steve has made, because he's got to do something about the walls, the bleak coldness of them; better a bunch of white paper than a bunch of gray stone. He draws whatever he thinks about, anything that doesn't hurt too much to look at every day; that leaves out a lot of things from before the ice, but there's still interesting stuff from after. He has one of Natasha over the door, fiery but impassive; Barton is next to the dresser, smirking as he draws his bow. There's Stark and Banner, too, though he tried twice to capture Thor and couldn't quite do it. He had a picture of his neighborhood over his bed, but it got so sad, made him yearn so much for home that he took it down and tore it up, promising himself he wouldn't do it again, not until he could see the sky.

He's working on one of Director Fury, trying to get the scowl just right, and he only glances up briefly when Coulson comes in with dinner. He should keep Coulson in sight at all times, but they've really gone past that at this point. Coulson is already standing behind him anyway, and he laughs when he sees what Steve is drawing. "That's a pretty good likeness."

"It could have been better," Steve says, feeling snide. "I didn't know him for very long."

"The only thing to know about Director Fury is that you will never know whether you know anything about him at all," Coulson says, deliberately ignoring Steve's meaning. Coulson takes a look around at the drawings, studying them; his back is turned, and Steve looks for something to hit him with, to end this. He can't go through with it, though. The only thing he has that's appropriate is the chair, and he couldn't possibly lift it, not now.

"This one is beautiful," Coulson says, brushing his fingers over one Steve did of his shield. Steve spent a long time on it, but that doesn't mean it's very good. He was going to throw it out, but the wall looked particularly bare in that corner, so he's had it up there filling space until something better came along.

"If you want it, it's yours," he says, putting down his pencil. "I'll even sign it for you."

Coulson is speechless; he takes the drawing down, handing it to Steve. He signs it in big letters, TO MY BIGGEST FAN - CAPTAIN AMERICA, because that's what he figures Coulson really wants. "Thank you so much," Coulson says, staring at the drawing like he can't believe it. He snaps out of it finally, setting the drawing down carefully on the desk. "Go on, eat. I want to give you something when you're done."

Steve goes and sits down on the bed, next to the tray of food. That statement doesn't sound promising exactly, or, rather, Steve doesn't know exactly what it promises. He eats anyway, trying not to look like he's too suspicious. "All done," Steve says, pushing it away.

"Come with me," Coulson says, standing up, and Steve's heart leaps when he walks to the door and opens it. Steve follows quickly, taking stock of his surroundings but not lingering for a moment; he's been in a sub-basement, the door concealed by a cabinet, and Coulson leads him up a flight of stairs and out a door and Steve is suddenly, finally outside.

It's sunset, the last red rays spilling out over the landscape. They're in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields full of nothing. The air is warm, a light breeze sweeping over the weeds in the fields. It's beautiful, so beautiful, and Steve is having trouble seeing through the tears in his eyes.

"I was saving this," Coulson says, "but you were so generous that I thought I might move it up." Steve packs down the part of him that's horrified at the thought of how generous he might have to be to get out of here, trying to enjoy the moment. "If you don't try to run, I thought we could take a walk."

Steve swallows. He can't even see a road in the distance; he knows there is nowhere to run. "A walk sounds great."

"This way," Coulson says. There's a small path leading away from the basement and around the house it's attached to. The house is old; Steve's not any good at telling, but it must be a hundred years or more. It's in good shape though, obviously well taken care of.

Of course it is, Steve thinks bitterly. Coulson is very careful with his things.

"Where are we?" Steve asks.

"This house belongs to my family," Coulson tells him, which is and isn't an answer, and Steve lets it go. He can collect all the information he wants, but there's no one to tell it to; someone would have to come here to know how to get here. "It was a little run down when we came out here, but fixing it up wasn't that hard."

"Should have let me out," Steve says dryly. "I could have helped."

Coulson doesn't respond. They pass by a small graveyard, and Steve feels like he might throw up from sheer nervous terror. "I'm buried out there," Coulson says.

"Are you going to bury me there, too?" Steve asks, too scared to even act like he's not.

"What?" Coulson asks, recoiling. "Captain, I'd never hurt you. You know that."

Coulson looks so upset, so betrayed that Steve feels like an asshole for hurting him. "I'm sorry," Steve says. "I'm just frightened, that's all."

"There's nothing to be frightened of," Coulson tells him. "Everything is just as it should be."

There's a damn lot to be frightened of, the deathly cast of Coulson's skin, the way Steve's entire arm won't stop hurting; for starters, they're both going to die out here, all alone.

At least they have each other.

"It's getting dark," Coulson says. "We should go inside."

Steve sits on a bench at the edge of the graveyard, somebody's memorial to someone, both of them forgotten. "Can't we stay out here for just a little longer?"

Coulson still looks worried, out of sorts; he frowns at Steve, but just when Steve thinks he's going to order him back inside, Coulson sits down next to him. Steve puts an arm around his shoulders, wanting to comfort him despite himself. The sun goes down around them, until the path is almost too dark to see.

And then Coulson takes him back to the basement and locks the door.

\--

Steve can't decide if things are worse or better after that, but they change. Coulson lets him out now, not for long, but they have a walk now and again, even though it's getting harder for Steve to walk for long periods of time without Coulson's help. One day, Coulson even sets him up with a makeshift easel in the garden, and Steve spends most of an afternoon sketching flowers, working until the night is coming on and his fingers are getting numb with the chill.

All this is good, because Steve gets to go out; all this is bad, because Coulson always puts him right back in, right where he started, in the all-too-familiar room that's getting colder as the days pass. Sometimes he thinks he was better off when he couldn't see the sky at all, when all he knew was underground.

Coulson comes down one night without dinner, and Steve is worried, so worried. But Coulson just extends his hand, helping him up. Coulson's skin is freezing, enough so that Steve wants to rub at it, try and warm him, but he doesn't act like he notices. "I thought we could have dinner upstairs tonight," Coulson tells him.

"I'd like that," Steve says, not insincerely.

There's a spread laid out on the table in the dining room, steaks, baked potatoes, buttery rolls. The Coke bottles look out of place next to the fancy china and silverware, but that's fine with Steve. "Please, have a seat," Coulson says, pulling out a chair, and Steve sits, putting his napkin in his lap.

"It looks delicious," Steve says, picking up his knife and fork. 

"I hope it is," Coulson tells him, taking a sip of his Coke. "I don't usually pan-fry steak, but it's too chilly to use the grill."

Steve waves him off. "Don't believe all the big talk. You can make a steak inside that's better than anything you can make outside."

"Spoken like a true New York boy," Coulson says, smiling.

Steve looks down at his steak. "I'd like to go back someday," he says.

"Maybe we can, someday," Coulson says, and it doesn't even sound like much of a lie. Coulson's very good at what he does- or did, Steve has no idea.

The meal is nice, the company enjoyable. Steve tries very hard to keep it off his mind that there is nothing nice about this, that he's sitting here eating with his kidnapper and jailer; maybe he's starting to lose his sanity, but he's just trying to do what he can, trying to make the best of a horrible situation, reclaim any bit of happiness that he's able to.

"I have something I'd like to show you," Coulson says, when they've both pushed back their plates.

"Lead the way," Steve tells him, and Coulson takes him to a door off the living room, unlocking it and turning on the light inside. He holds the door open, motioning for Steve to step through. Steve gets two steps in and stops in his tracks, looking around, filled with awe and horrified fascination.

He went to museums once or twice after he got back, trying to understand the way things had gone. He went to the World War II section in one of them and ended up in cultural history; he spent a while there, smiling at the pictures of the art he remembered, listening to the songs. And then he turned around, and there he was, face to face with himself, one of his stage uniforms on a mannequin in a glass case. He looked at it and looked at it and it never felt any better, never settled inside him. He skipped half the museum and just left, not wanting to face it again.

This is that, times a thousand.

Everywhere he looks is Captain America, Captain America, Captain America, the whole place covered in red, white, and blue. The walls are ringed with display cases, short and tall, almost all full of books and toys and propaganda. There's a smiling photograph of him in the corner, one of the headshots with stamped signatures that they used to send to little kids who wrote him letters; Steve's own drawing is hanging by the window, proudly matted and framed. Coulson has more things that Steve even knew there were, and he's got multiples, closed drawers full of God knows what. Steve's sure there are museums that don't have collections this thorough, this extensive, and the thought of a museum having this much stuff is strange enough to him as it is.

Steve walks around in a daze, trying to make any sense of it at all, trying to take in the deluge, before he stops in front of the case on the wall. This one is flat, no mannequin, but, nevertheless, there's his uniform. It's not one of the old ones. It's covered in blood and grime, ripped in places; this is the one that he was wearing during the battle, while they were fighting the Chitauri.

"I had to take it off you, I apologize," Coulson says. "I promise you, I didn't do anything inappropriate while you were out." Steve can't even find a response to that statement. "I left your shield where Stark could find it. That kind of technology can't be allowed to fall into the wrong hands."

"Tony counts as the right hands?" Steve says distantly.

"His father already had it," Coulson reminds him. "The damage was done."

Steve somehow finds the strength to tear his eyes away from his surroundings and look at Coulson. "So this is what you've been keeping me here for," he says, feeling lightheaded. "You don't want to be friends. You're not lonely. You want me because I'm the ultimate collector's item."

Coulson gives him a look of pity. "No, don't say that-"

"It's true and we both know it," Steve snaps. "I can't believe I ever even came close to-" He feels faint suddenly, grabbing onto the top of one of the cases for support.

"Please, Steve," Coulson begs. "You're going to-"

"It's not Steve, is it," he says. "It's never been Steve. It's never been anything but Captain Am-" And then he starts to fall, but Coulson's there to catch him.

"Don't strain yourself," Coulson says gently. "I'm sorry. I thought you would like it." Steve is too tired to argue. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

Coulson drags him out of the door, locking it before he picks Steve up, hoisting him into a fireman's carry. Steve can't find it in him to fight back as Coulson carries him down into the basement, depositing him in his bed. Steve reaches out, putting his hand around Coulson's wrist. "Please," he says feebly, not even sure what he's asking.

Coulson smooths a hand over Steve's hair; he reaches down and takes off Steve's shoes, setting them down just under the edge of the bed. He takes his own off and sets them next to them, then he lays down. He stays carefully separated at first, but Steve turns towards him, huddling closer. Coulson is freezing, but Steve needs contact, contact from anyone, something to prove that no matter how terrified he is, he's not really alone.

Coulson breathes out raggedly, rolling over and clutching Steve towards him, avoiding Steve's throbbing arm despite how desperately he's holding Steve. "I love you," Coulson says fervently. "I should have told you before now. I was going to ask you to move in with me, but now I know you wouldn't want to."

Steve can't speak, can't explain that anything is better than living in a tiny basement, that he'll give Coulson anything he wants, anything at all, will do whatever it takes to keep him happy as long as Coulson will make sure he's safe, let him go, stop the headache that's making his whole world spin.

He kisses Coulson instead, out of desperation; maybe this is what Coulson wants, what he needs. He's never asked, but surely he must want to, surely he's been waiting for the moment. Maybe this is the one; maybe it has to be, because Steve doesn't know how much longer he has. Coulson groans into his mouth, kissing him back fiercely, overpowering him. He pulls Steve tight against him, tight enough that it starts to hurt, rolling him onto his back and pinning him there, holding him down and taking what Steve knows he wants.

And then just like that Coulson lets him go, pushing him gently away. "None of that, okay?" Coulson says, and he sounds so, so disappointed. He stands up from the bed, ignoring the way Steve reaches for him, pulling the blankets up and tucking them in around Steve's body. "You need to rest. Don't overexert yourself or you'll just get sick again."

"Why," is all Steve can think to say, as Coulson turns and leaves.

He looks back over his shoulder at Steve. "If you knew anything about collecting," he says, cold and hard, "you'd know you never open a vintage toy."

Steve is left alone in the dark, shivering and hurting, hurting so badly, in ways that have nothing to do with the pain in his body.

\--

Steve hears the door in the morning and he can't move, can't move at all. He hasn't slept, just shook and shook and shook until his muscles were sore from it. He saw strange things when he shut his eyes, things that scared him, until he stop trying to shut them, stopped doing anything except shaking. Now the strange things are in his room, moving across the floor.

He shuts his eyes tight, trying to keep the things out. "Good morning, Captain," Coulson's voice says, and Steve doesn't respond, because it might be Coulson and it might be one of the things, and he doesn't know which one is worse. "Captain?" the voice says again. There's the clink and rattle of the breakfast tray, footsteps. "Steve," the voice says, closer and more insistent. There's a hand on his arm and Steve hisses at the pain, shrinking back.

When he opens his eyes Coulson is there, or something like Coulson; the head is ringed with light from the lamp, and he or it looks like a saint, an angel.

"Help me," Steve says, his voice soft and shaky, because you're supposed to be able to pray to saints, supposed to be able to use them to get to God, or at least Steve thinks that's how it goes. He'll take what he can get right now, when he can't even keep his eyes open, even the lamplight too harsh for them.

"I need you to hang on," Coulson says, low and fervent. "I need you to hang on for me, Rogers. Don't quit on me."

"Help," Steve says again, barely above a whisper, and then it goes away, it all goes away, the things overtake him and everything is black.

\--

He's hot and he's freezing, and everything hurts every time he moves, shocks of pain in his eyes whenever he opens them. His hands grasp and move and he can't stop them, can't tell what is and isn't happening.

In his sleep he sees glimpses of boots, of rifles, of blue uniforms. Hallucinations. The end is coming soon.

\--

"Don't try to move," is the first thing he hears when he wakes up. It's a soft, female voice, and Steve wonders who Coulson has brought to visit him, why Coulson would risk a visitor.

Steve looks up at the ceiling, and it's the wrong one, a white one. "Where am I?" Steve says, his throat scratchy and dry.

The woman walks closer; it's Natasha, and she gives him a sip of water. "You're safe."

"Last time I heard that," Steve says, "it didn't work out so well for me."

"You're at a SHIELD base," Natasha tells him. "We rescued you six days ago."

"How did you find me?" he asks.

"Coulson," she says. "When you got sick, he called us and turned himself in."

"He saved my life," Steve says, mostly to himself.

Natasha looks at him. "He locked you in a basement for three months."

"He's not well," he says insistently. "Natasha, he needs help. It's the spear."

"You sound like Thor," Natasha tells him.

"Please," Steve says. "Tell me what happened to him."

Natasha looks at him like she can't decide if it's a good idea or not. "I guess it won't mean anything to you if I talk about Stockholm syndrome." He gives her a blank look, and she sighs. "He's being held. You're right. He's not well. That doesn't mean we can fix him. That doesn't mean we'll try."

"Somebody has to," Steve says.

Natasha shakes her head. "You need rest. The inhibitor he had you on is leaving your system, but it's not gone. You're still at risk."

"Thanks," he says, as she turns to go.

"Go to sleep," she replies.

\--

It takes the better part of a week before Steve is up and around, more than that before he feels remotely like himself again. It takes several days after that to prove to them he's not crazy, for them to let him have what he wants. Psych calls it closure, medical calls it an unnecessary risk, and Nick Fury doesn't call it anything, just sits back and watches the security cameras.

They don't let him in alone; there are two uniformed and armed guards standing on either side of the door when Steve walks in. There's not much to walk in to, the room hardly bigger than the space it takes for a bed, a sink, a toilet, and a chair.

Coulson is wearing white scrubs, and his skin is nearly the same color. He looks curiously at Steve when he comes in, setting a tray of food down at the end of his bed.

"They tell me you won't eat," Steve says, and Coulson doesn't respond. He takes the plastic cover off the salisbury steak and mashed potatoes; it's more like hospital food than prison food. It's still not clear which one Coulson belongs in, but most people seem to be banking on the latter.

Coulson looks at the food like he's starving, which he is, but he doesn't move towards it or say anything. "I'm not hungry."

"Of course you are," Steve tells him. "I'd know, right?" Coulson looks away from him. "Too soon?"

"If you just came here to bait me," Coulson says, rubbing his forehead, "well, I suppose be my guest. If anyone deserves to do it it's you."

"I just wanted to see how you are," Steve tells him. "The doctors said you-" Steve stops. The doctors used a lot of bad words, words that Coulson probably doesn't want to hear, ones he knows too well already. "Have they tried-" What did Natasha call it? "A cognitive recalibration?"

"I know how this goes," Coulson says, smiling wryly. "They're going to take me out back and give me a nine-millimeter recalibration."

"Don't talk like that, please," Steve says, frowning. "Everything is going to be fine."

"What are you doing here?" Coulson asks, sounding weary.

"The doctors said you wouldn't eat, and I told them maybe you just needed company." Coulson looks at him like he can't figure out Steve's game, like he's waiting for the catch. "Come on, eat something," Steve says. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill."

The corner of Coulson's mouth goes up. "A goodwill gesture."

"Exactly," Steve says.

Coulson shakes his head, but he reaches for his plate, picking up his plastic spoon and using it to cut into his meat. Steve smiles, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him. His hair has gotten too long in the back; maybe he can get someone to see to that. Just because they can't let him go doesn't mean it has to be awful.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a fusion with [The Collector](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Collector_\(1965_film\)), an impeccable horror film starring the lovely Terence Stamp as one creepy motherfucker.
> 
> As such, this story contains kidnapping, imprisonment, non-consensual drugging, consent issues (including dubiously consensual physical contact not including sex), Stockholm syndrome, and probably some things I missed. Please leave a comment if there's an issue I've overlooked.
> 
> As usual, many thanks to [coffeesuperhero](http://ao3.org/users/coffeesuperhero) and [shadowen](http://ao3.org/users/shadowen) for holding my little hand through this.


End file.
